


but i'm Wishing in my Head

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Birthday, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Older Noctis Lucis Caelum, Post-Episode Ignis Verse 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26202829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: But now, he imagines they could face each other, eye to eye, a warm proud smile on his father’s lips and unfettered love in his eyes, hair no longer graying and every trace of fatigue wiped out along with the glaring veins and deep wrinkles. And he imagines himself, returning it all in full as Regis places a sturdy but gentle hand on his shoulder.Years after the Decade of Darkness, Insomnia is still rebuilding and the world still healing. Life goes on, and that's all Noctis could ever ask for.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	but i'm Wishing in my Head

**Author's Note:**

> noct deserves a nice long sleep :)

Insomnia, for the most part, has recovered. There are districts still left in ruins, residential areas flooded, parts of the city broken and in pieces. There are still missing persons reports, filed from over fifteen years ago, loved ones still unrecovered and hopes of finding them long gone. There are trade routes blocked and forgotten, bandits roaming the roads and making victims of innocent passerbys and merchants, if the rabid beasts don’t find them first. 

But the sun shines. There’s another samaritan for every wretched soul that finds itself in misery, a new portion of land cleared and prepped for a fresh start, another family that makes itself out of no man’s land and into Insomnia’s open walls. The land is still healing, the world itself still mending, scarring over old wounds and building tougher skin. 

There’s no magic left in the world; the havens have lost their wards and powers when the last Oracle died, and the Hexatheon took the rest with them as they disappeared within the Beyond. Only a couple of decades, and the years of darkness and centuries of disease and rot seem like a fairytale now, a story to be told to misbehaving children. 

What Noctis Lucis Caelum would do to make it just that: a fairytale. He survived, beat Bahamut at his own game and fulfilled the Prophecy without sacrificing himself, but there’s a price to pay for loopholes. A slow, drawn-out price. Not that he’s complaining.

For the time he had the Ring and the superhuman magic afforded to him by the Crystal, he had pushed himself like it was his last night — and by all means, it should have been. At the end of it all, he had felt like he used up at least twenty years’ worth of strength and magic and blood in the span of that one never-ending gauntlet leading to Ardyn’s demise. Though in the thick of it he had only noticed the present burn of the Lucii coursing through his veins, or the sharp throbbing of a broken rib before the mending of a potion. Adrenaline’s one hell of a drug.

But the thing is, he knows he had pushed through certain limits that would have killed any other man; hell, not even of the kings before him could have handled the power he channeled all through that night. He’s lucky — rather, unlucky — that the gods had chosen him and bestowed their favor and blessings to live through it. 

But with his role over and old ghostly kings and powerful gods finally dead, not a day went by without feeling the knockback effects of borrowing too much power far too quickly. 

It started off mundane, as all precursors tend to be, like the extra ache in his leg after a too long day or the blurriness of his vision accompanied by a migraine. Until the last couple of years, when getting out of bed was like summoning Titan, leaving him breathless and shaking and oh so tired, or on the days when he actually managed to limp around the restored parts of the Citadel, when his bad knee suddenly gave up and Gladio had to catch him by his arms and elbows. And the mornings when he simply  _ could not, _ becoming more frequent with each passing day. (And the quiet nights, interrupted by a coughing wheeze for air and the loud erratic thunder blows of his heart.)

Noctis could have tolerated it, accustomed to chronic pain as he is, but the rebuilding of a fledgling world felt like an even heavier burden. 

That, too, he could have dealt with. If he knew how. 

He didn’t know a damn thing about leading a kingdom. He was never taught how to.

(There had been no reason to, after all. He wasn’t supposed to live long enough to be king.)

But he managed, by the skin of his teeth, thanks to Cor and Ignis and even Gladio, who had listened in when he could at Clarus’ side. Noctis probably could have done better if he had gotten the prep he needed for something like this, but hey, the world’s not burning anymore. He’d say he did a pretty decent job for the limited tools he had under his belt.

Not like the people could offer him much complaint since he literally saved humanity. So maybe he’s giving himself too much credit there. 

He smiles at that thought, staring at the dark ceiling above. 

Which begged the question: when did he get into bed?

Old age must be catching up to him now, if he can’t remember that much. But if he tries hard enough, he catches glimpses of earlier, of fighting through creaky old joints and labored breaths and finally catching a sigh of relief when he slipped under the bedsheets. There was… wine he shared. And laughs. Bright laughs with old friends and a slice of pre-celebratory cake, a joke about eating too much sweets before bedtime that would catch up with his hips and gut.

“So, what  _ do _ you want for your birthday, Noct? And please don’t tell me it’s a fishing rod,” Gladio said, mirth in his eyes and warmth in his tone. Or perhaps that was Prompto.

Noctis doesn’t remember what he answered. It doesn’t matter though, not when he already has his birthday wish made true.

Insomnia is finally strong enough to go on without him. Maybe they reached that point long ago, but he’s confident now.

They don’t need the hand of a king to guide them; and if they ever need a little support, there’s always Cor, Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto and all the other surviving dignitaries that surely know a lot more about ruling and governing than he does. 

The entire world itself doesn’t need a king, actually. Which is… quite fortunate, as Noctis knows he’ll be the last of the line, the last of the Caelums and the last remnant of a nightmare that’s no longer. When he’s gone, the world can forget and move on, pretend it’s just an old story to inspire or frighten. Maybe they’ll make a little statue somewhere to commemorate him, and eventually that too, will lose its original meaning and drown in moss and rust and blurred memories.

That’s not such a bad idea — a quiet ending.

Regis would be proud of him, surely. Noctis had been unable to see his face in their final moments together, his father too burdened with guilt and grief to properly meet his eyes, piercing his sword into his son’s chest before Noctis could raise his head. But now, he imagines they could face each other, eye to eye, a warm proud smile on his father’s lips and unfettered love in his eyes, hair no longer graying and every trace of fatigue wiped out along with the glaring veins and deep wrinkles. And he imagines himself, returning it all in full as Regis places a sturdy but gentle hand on his shoulder.

Where an all-encompassing warmth bleeds through, when his father wraps his arms tight around him and Noctis returns it tenfold, lighting up what’s left of his cold, rusty body, and he feels like he’s twenty again, the glorious Regalia shining in all her splendor a mere few steps away. It’s just as the last time he saw his father alive, stopping him at the Citadel steps to bid him his final farewell and offer what Noctis thought was just another platitude, unaware of the wrenching meaning just beneath. 

But rather than a send-off, it feels like a welcome back. It feels like tranquility.

So he lets himself fall and rise or wherever the soothing warmth takes him, feeling the easiest, clearest breath he’s ever had in ages finally leave his lips, content with the knowledge there will be no more birthday candles left to blow out.

**Author's Note:**

> /shakes mug of "readers' tears"  
> feed me

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] but i'm Wishing in my Head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28765548) by [arkadyevna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkadyevna/pseuds/arkadyevna)




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